"I was just changing clothes, sorry." Pesci pipes from the hallway as he makes his way back to his living room– having changed into a black tank and gray joggers.

"I have clothes that you can relax in if you want.?"

"–its just that I don't imagine your dress clothes are that comfortable!" He very quickly tries to clarify. Prosciutto can tell its because he doesn't wanna cross any boundaries so soon.

"I've got shirts and joggers and–" he sputters on but prosciutto, for a moment, finds herself somewhere else.

She has never worn another man's clothes.

"Thats... very considerate of you..."

Pesci looks at her expectantly.

"Maybe later." She finishes with.

She cant help but notice his let down, hes gotten so good at hiding it now.

"Well how about a drink?"

Now that is something Prosciutto can land on.

"What do you have in there?"

"Beer... light beer... dark beer..."

"-wine.... I dont have any of that hard stuff you like, you know it hurts my stomach." He mulls, the last part he says more to himself.

"Is it red or white? The wine." Prosciutto asks because the answer does matter.

"Both? As in I have multiple?"

Prosciutto sits up a little, elbow resting on the sofa arm as she watches him rummage around in his cabinet.

“Red,” she decides. “If we’re opening anything, open the red.”

Pesci freezes mid-motion, his fingers hovering over the beer's tab he already had in hand.

Oh– right.

Of course she would pick the wine. She is a lady after all.

He places the can back softly and closes the fridge door as quietly as he can, like he’s afraid of disturbing the atmosphere. He stares at the fridge doors for a second longer anyway, the comfort of habit lingering behind those doors. But something in him shifts — a tiny, private thought:

Wine does seem more romantic… right?

He swallows, nodding to himself, and grabs the bottle of red instead.

Pesci returns from the kitchen with the bottle and a handful of two regular drinking glasses—no stemware.

Prosciutto raises an eyebrow.

“…Those are… just cups.”

He shrugs. “They’ll work, won’t they?”

She makes her way to him, reaching out for the bottle, already scanning the table. “Where’s your corkscrew?”

Pesci stops her with a quiet, “It’s fine. I got it.” setting the cups down.

Before she can question it, he grips the neck of the bottle with one hand and lets Beach Boy slide down his palm, hook bouncing on the string as he lets it fall. The little glint of metal sways once—weightless and precise—before dipping straight through the the thick glass of the bottle.

He snakes and maneuvers the hook into and through its narrow neck, the line moving with a fluid, practiced ease. It’s effortless, almost lazy, like he’s threading a needle underwater. The line disappears into the cork, tension tightening along the string as if Beach Boy itself is anticipating the snap.

Then, he begins to pull.

Not rough—hard but controlled—the string taut between his steady fingers. Prosciutto sees the cork begin to shift—just enough—nudged upward by something non-corporeal beneath the glass. The bottle trembles from the pressure, the cork slowly, stubbornly giving way.

Prosciutto’s breath catches.

Pesci braces the bottle against his hip– waving Beach Boy away with it, his two fingers and thumb wrapping around the cork.

The way his thick fist grips the neck… Prosciutto, for a moment, imagines him pleasuring himself…

The thought is too intrusive—too vivid—and it burns hot and low in her belly.

Jesus. Get a hold of yourself.

His jaw tightens; biceps flex, his chest tautens underneath his black tank, shoulders drawing in with slow deliberateness. Veins stand out along his forearm and up the side of his neck as he gives a hard pull.

pop.

The cork comes free. Its over in a moment.

He doesn’t even look at her. He just sets the cork aside, casual like it was nothing, and starts pouring—giving her a heavy, generous amount, then his own. The wine pools dark and lusciously into the plain cups.

Prosciutto takes the glass, stunned into silence.

She’s still staring at his hands. His arms, his chest and trapezius. The sheer size of him.

Pesci just grins— lifts his glass to his lips, and drinks it down like water.

Adrenaline high catching up to him and fast.

He wipes his bottom lip with his palm, totally unaware that the gesture sends heat rolling straight down her spine.

He’s proud. She can see it—he’s buzzing with that boyish swagger.

But underneath that pride is something else, something still sincere.

Did that look manly enough? Did I impress you?

Prosciutto swallows a mouthful of wine to hide the way her breath trembles.

Prosciutto knows she should scold him for being a glutton... A... sexy, show off, glut...

He doesn’t realize he just lit a fuse.

She leans back on the couch, trying to play it off, crossing her legs to stop the steady hum of want building in her stomach. Her voice comes out lower, rougher than intended.

"Where did that come from...” she smiles softly, coyly. Womanly.

He laughs once, short, nervous, rubbing the back of his neck. Already refilling his glass.

“Where did what come from?” smiling sweetly himself, making his way back to the couch to join her.

He doesn’t know.

He has no idea what he looks like to her.

Prosciutto’s eyes linger on him the whole time.

“I forget how strong you must be now.”

She pauses, correcting herself, softer-

“Beach Boy is one thing… but you must be so strong now.”

Pesci just listens, unable to meet her gaze for long. That perpetual urge to deflect her praise flickers across his face.

“It– uh, he does most of the work,” he mutters, cheeks warming from both the wine and her voice. He sets his glass on the wooden end table, seeming to contemplate whether or not to sit.

“Pesci. Sit with me.” She coaxes.

And he does. He sinks down beside her immediately because she asked him to. His size making it difficult to sit without touching one another in some way.

Prosciutto takes two long sips before she speaks again, already feeling the warmth settle in her face.

“I can tell." She's still eyeing his musculature. "You are bigger now. You were so much thinner at the start of our career.”

Our.

The word settles between them intimately and warm.

Pesci just listens for now, eyes a little unfocused. Lost somewhere between the buzz and the sound of her voice. Prosciutto is trying to catch up as she finishes her own glass. She grimaces at the last sips bitter taste– wiping her wet mouth with the palm of her hand– trying to talk through it.

“I remember your blonde hair too– Before the green.”

“Ah! Did-did you like it better?”

He laughs then groans– blushing even harder, while rubbing the back of his neck roughly. “I did that bleach job at home...”

She laughs with him- because of course he did. And he leans in, just slightly, without thinking about it. She mirrors him, like magnet to steel, feeling the heat roll off him. His chestnut roots so obvious now.

"I've had- I have fun with you Pesci." She admits.

"I have fun with you too, Prosciutto. Lots." Pesci says lowly. Sincerely.

And for a moment, Prosciutto’s looking straight past the man he is now- the broad chest, the shoulders, the strength- to the boy he used to be. And to the girl she feels herself becoming again in his eyes, in his arms.

Already hers before either of them had the words for it.

He may have always been hers.

"Pesci?..." as gently as she can. Her nimble fingers just barely grazing his body.

"Yeah...?" Quiet and hoarsely.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Something in her expression makes him go still as his hand finds her thigh.

And he kisses her– slow and wetted from the wine.

Not as shakey as their first time, not nearly. Confidence so apparent in the way he moves now.

Like he finally knows what to do with a lover. With her.

His hand reach up to touch her jaw with the tips of his fingers, the other's fingers hooking into the top of her leg.

Its only seconds and Prosciutto's body is throbbing. Take me! Take me! It screams.

Then he pulls away. Gently, and Prosciutto has to stop herself from following.

"Prosciutto– I'm sorry– did you want me to do that?" Pesci stammers out before he even reopens his eyes. Hes interrupted by cool fingers on his lips.

"Pesci shut up..." She groans.